


Block out the Stench

by Many_Nine



Series: Sometimes Jon goes home [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dealing With Guilt, Dealing With Trauma, Depression, Jon still tries to keep it together, Martin Blackwood - Freeform, Spoilers for Episode 22: Colony, the beholding freeform, the corruption freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22648255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Many_Nine/pseuds/Many_Nine
Summary: Martin is safe. For now.The day is over.Jon has to go home.
Series: Sometimes Jon goes home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1607515
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	Block out the Stench

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings for:  
> Beholding  
> Corruption  
> Web (implied)  
> Inner Monolouge of a depressed person
> 
> Please stay safe!

Jon would laugh were it not so serious an issue. And were he not currently sitting in the tube. Surrounded by people who might think that odd.

"He shall want to see it when the Archivists crimson fate arrives"

What kind of threat is that supposed to be?

Was he going to... Did Prentiss know something he didn't... No-no. No.

Wrong train of thought.

He should be more worried about Martin...

She had knocked. She had knocked and knocked and knocked... She knew. Obviously she did.

She knew. Was this book going to throw a shadow over his whole life? Did Worms and Spiders even work together?

Why did Martin need to go back that night? Who investigates at night? What did he think he was going to find? He wasn’t that strict was he? Driving a grown man to squeeze himself through a tiny window in the middle of the night? That was ridiculous.

And the way he demanded a statement like he just needed Jon to hear every excruciating detail of what he made him do. No, he shouldn't be angry at Martin. The man had wanted to do his job. But still...

It's not his fault that Martin lost his phone. It's not his fault that he has no landline. It's not his fault that he got trapped in his apartment for thirteen days. It's not. It's not. It's not.

 _Itsnotitsnotitsnotitsnot_ \- It is.

Oh god. _Of course_ it is.

Jon covers his face with his hand and lays his head back against the seat. As he drags down his hands he sighs. Out with all the worry.

Deep breath in. Out with all the misplaced guilt.

Deep breath in. Out with – shit did something beneath his seat just move?

He stands up fast. Too fast. An old lady looks at him disapprovingly. He covers it up by walking to the door of the tube and taking the next stop.

Only two stops until he is home. Either he waits for 10 or...

The rain is icy cold against his face, his coat is soaked through the moment he left the station. Yes. Of course. Of bloody course it rains the exact evening of the day that he misplaced his umbrella. Of the exact day that his assistant comes to him, after being stalked for weeks by a colony of worms calling itself a woman. The exact bloody day that he-

That he just can't take any more.

 _This is hard_ , he thinks as he places one leg before the other. _This is hard_ , he thinks as he walks past a couple, holding hands, cosy beneath their umbrella, a little island of warmth. _This is hard_ , he thinks as he catches his reflection in a dark shopping window.

This is hard and he looks like a mess.

No wonder he is so lonely.

Where did that thought come from? He isn't lonely. He is... Alone. At the moment.

Which is completely acceptable for someone of his age to be. Martin is alone too. In his tiny room. In the archives. Where he probably lies awake in the dark. Surrounded by statements. Listening and aware of every tiny sound. Not even a few hundred feet away from storage.

Shit.

Why didn't he ask him to come home with him?

Jon nearly dropped his keys.

He could have asked.

Now the door was open and the mirror in the floor looked at him critically.

Drenched from the rain, shivering in his open entranceway, shoulders dripping with water and guilt, gaze laden with disappointment.

He could have asked.

Martin wouldn't have said no to a bit of company. Jon could have made sure they were safe in the apartment. What did Martin say? Close all the windows, the cracks under the doors, something about the water supply. No, that was safe.

Did he have any food?

His pantry was empty, so was his fridge. He could stack up tomorrow.

Door is closed, windows sealed, nothing could enter that hadn't been here from the get-go.

What if there was a nest here already?

Oh god what if Prentiss came to his apartment this night instead. A tiny nest of worms is all it would take.

No stench, no worms. Nowhere. His umbrella was on his antique writing table though. No wonder he couldn't find it this morning.

 _Way to freak yourself out Jon._ Water isn't good for old wood, but it's good for you. Take a shower get a cup of tea. You are still wet and drenched.

Else you are the one writing messages about being sick.

Absolutely idiotically he checked every inch of skin he could see in the bathroom light before, during and after the shower. Idiocy is, after all, reserved for the bathroom. Outside of it he leaves it all behind, the paranoia, the worry, the guilt.

Here, he can just. Indulge it a bit.

Is it really paranoia if the threat is real?

With his pyjamas on, his reading glasses on his nose, the hot tea on his bedside table, the thick, warm comforter all around him, his newest acquisition of book in hand, some dreadfully old thing about 18th century sailing techniques (it is delightful) and the light shining golden, he was content. A good evening. A very good one by his standards.

Breathing out his worries, taking in the new information. Everything was alright. 18th century British sailing is a tad different from Viking sailing. Martin is safe now, his apartment is as wormproof as it gets, he is going to buy foodstuff tomorrow, everything is - _he is going to starve._

Jon Sims, the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute is going to die of starvation inside his own apartment and he doesn't even have a tape recorder on hand. Nobody will miss him.

Elias will just get some new idiot for the job. Maybe ask Tim to take over. He would probably do a better job too. Nobody is going to miss him, and no one is even going to notice, if they are they would probably be delighted to be rid of him.

The wet jacket is awful on his skin, his pyjama shirt is soaked through in seconds, clammy on his warm skin. He really should buy a new jacket. A waterproof one this time. Umbrella and grocery bag in hand he is ready for the cold London night.

Of course, now that he has the fucking thing in hand it doesn't even rain anymore. It always rains in London. Always. Unless it doesn't.

Jon smiles. The weather is a safe topic to be disgruntled about. This is good. This okay.

It's okay, worries in, breath out. No. The other way around. Breathe in, worries out.

Everything is going to be alright. The corner grocery store he has never been in has a twenty-four-hour policy. He feels stupid packing dried and premade food packed in differing cans and jars in his tiny shopping basket. He still wears his pyjama bottoms. At least he put on shoes.

The clerk is probably watching him on the feed.

He is the only one in here besides her.

God what must he look like?

Husband sent out of the house in the middle of the night to buy last minute preparations? Drug addict? Homeless man trying to get as much for as low a price as possible? Maybe just some idiot who forgot to prepare for the camping trip tomorrow...

As he comes to the counter she barely looks up from her magazine.

Why does he torture himself that way? She doesn't care. Why would she care?

And he is out of the store, his jacket nearly dried and again it rains. The umbrella goes up and this time, this time the cold and the falling rain in the streetlights... _It looks beautiful._

Even if he gets eaten by worms tonight, at least he has this tiny beautiful moment to take with him. It's okay. He breathes his worries out and this time it works. He feels lighter somehow even though he is carrying 40£ worth of canned food.

When he comes home, ready to slip in bed to his cooled down tea and his half-forgotten book, his comforter is still warm. And Jon puts out the light and goes to sleep.

And yes, he dreams of Martin, scared, huddled in his apartment while Jon can't do anything but watch and shiver at each knocking sound.

But when he wakes up, he is still alive, no worms burrowing in his skin, no strange woman in front of his door, his way to the Institute uneventful as always... And Jon knows, everything is fine.


End file.
